Author note: This is a sort of informal continuation of the second chapter of my drabble collection, There's Always An Antidote. The two can be linked, if you like, but I thought they'd be better apart... different tones and such... Anyhoo, read on, please comment, I'd love to know what you think.
Copy and Paste
The Archives: row after row and room after room of accumulated alien matter. Because if it's Alien, it's Ours.
And reports. Don't forget the reports. There were a lot of reports.
A year and a half had gone by since Ianto first began computerising Torchwood's records and for a secret organisation, there was a surprising amount. Dockets, orders, agendas, sexual harassment forms... All of it needed storing because you never know.
Ianto paused halfway through the 1940's shelf. A familiar name catching his eyes. He pulled the file out with caution and raised an exasperated eyebrow as the aged bindings gave way and most of the contents fluttered to the floor. One small glossy square, anchored to the manila by a rusted paperclip, was all that remained. A face glowered up at him in shades of grey and brown and Ianto smiled sadly.
"Of course you haven't changed," he murmured, tracing Jack's faded jaw line.
With a heavy sensation weighing in his chest, Ianto gathered up the fallen papers and took them back to his computer desk at the back of the room. Not a day went by when Ianto wouldn't copy up at least one box of the records, and it was hard going at times: understanding handwriting and spelling errors of the dead, archaic grammar and presentation, scanning the photos of those dead and gone.
Having to deal with one of Jack's many folders was something of a relief, even if it was in the wrong section...
"Name, then category, then date within that frame," muttered Ianto as he settled behind the desk, bringing up Jack's database. He had one all to himself, it was the only way. Jack would most likely be around forever.
Ianto wondered, just for a moment, who would deal with his own files and details after he was gone, and who would categorise and sort through all this dusty mess? It was a grim thought, he knew. Ianto dismissed it, forcing a smile onto his face as he looked through the file, ready to type.